


sunshine on rainy day (you who resembles the sun)

by bloomings



Category: ONEWE (Band)
Genre: Blind Character, Cigarettes, M/M, Musician Yonghoon, Ocean, Trauma, but not really mentioned or described, but only for one part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26693635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomings/pseuds/bloomings
Summary: He’s alone.The sounds of the waves are there, faraway, the crashing sound of them meeting the hard line of sand.  The cries of the seagulls.Through the opened windows he’s greeted with the brininess of the sea, carried by the ocean wind, the coolness of the water as winter begins to spread, fade in.This is all he needs, he thinks, during several points of his day.  A voice straining to convince itself more than a reassurance.Alone, by the sea.His fingers hover over the keys of his piano, he presses down, a long single note rings through the room, against the sound of the metronome in the room.He has a song to write.  Well, he has songs to write.
Relationships: Jin Yonghoon/Kang Hyungu | Kanghyun
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46
Collections: WEUS Harvest Moon Fest





	sunshine on rainy day (you who resembles the sun)

**Author's Note:**

> this is for prompt #086! 
> 
> _Yonghoon was born blind, and it's made life pretty hard sometimes. Music is his safe place- singing his heart out, letting his hands find their own place on the piano keys... even without his sight, he creates art. Hyungu was a normal, if maybe unusually quiet, kendo athlete before the fire. After everything he saw that day, he has never spoken again. But maybe, maybe it's just because he had no one who would listen... until now. ___

“Why are you here,” Yonghoon murmurs, hands reaching for a cup, fingers gripping tightly at the rim. He doesn’t get an answer right away, in the silence all he can hear is the birds chirping by the window, the way trees rustle as the easy spring breeze passes by.

He’s careful in pouring hot water into his cup, with his back turned to the other it’s hard to hide his smile, he presses his lips together, placing the kettle down.

Giwook snorts, Yonghoon reaches for the tea canister, easily within reach.

“Please,” Giwook’s voice is pushing back a laugh, “you love me, hyung”

When Yonghoon turns around to look at the younger, his smile spills over, his pout long forgotten as Yonghoon walks to the breakfast bar, leaning over just enough, long fingers careful as they reach forward, barely grazing the other’s own, “you never come visit hyung this early,” he says, smile turning wider when Giwook closes his hand over his own, just a second before he pulls away, Yonghoon can feel just how embarrassed he is. 

“I left hot water on the stove,” the younger says, “well, it should still be hot.”

“Thank you,” Yonghoon walks towards the stove, “Giwookie, why are you here?” he laughs, a small happy giggle, “did I forget we were doing something today?”

Giwook makes a huffing sound, once Yonghoon’s turns away, clicks his spoon alongside the rim of his cup. It rings loud, clear, piercing right through the static noise, the faraway cries of seagulls, the gentle collisions of waves to hardening sand.

“No, we aren’t doing anything today,” he sighs, Yonghoon hears the whiny drag of his voice.

Yonghoon hums, walks slowly as he tries not to spill hot water over his hand, placing the cup triumphantly back onto the counter.

“Let’s go down to the beach,” he says, fingers tapping as he waits patiently for his tea to diffuse, “it’s cold now, no one should be there.”

“Ok, hyung,” Giwook murmurs, voice low.

It goes quiet, Yonghoon grows impatient and raises his cup to his lips.

“Thank you,” Giwook mumbles.

Yonghoon hides his smile behind his cup of tea.

-

Giwook loops his arm around Yonghoon’s. Yonghoon can feel the way Giwook’s body shivers, subtly trying to huddle closer. For warmth, Giwook would argue if Yonghoon would bring it up. They stumble a bit as they try to match their strides, Yonghoon’s long legs selfishly refusing to follow Giwook’s lead.

He laughs, he can’t help it, something about being around the younger boy just makes him happy. 

“Ah,” he says, free hand reaching to ruffle the other’s hair. It’s soft under his touch, it’s curling, something he’s realized Giwook is doing a lot more often.

“It’s blue now, hyung,” Giwook supplies, helpfully.

“Blue?” Yonghoon echoes, pulling at some strands under his fingers, “you must look super cute with it,” his voice drops into a teasing tone, laughing when he hears Giwook’s sound of displeasure, feels the light slap it earns him from the other to their joint arms.

“You’re so embarrassing, hyung!” Giwook complains, Yonghoon can only laugh louder, dragging Giwook around from where they are connecting, playful.

“That Dongju kid would be lucky to have you,” Yonghoon pushes on, has to keep pulling at the thread, he bites down to keep his smile from spreading too wide.

“Agh, hyung!” Giwook complains, loud, childish.

“You sound like the seagulls,” Yonghoon laughs, “cute.”

“Whatever,” Giwook grumbles, Yonghoon can almost hear the roll of his eyes.

They go quite again, Yonghoon lets Giwook take the lead, slowing his steps to match the younger’s thoughtful walk. Sand seeps into his shoes, they sink into it with each step until they reach the coast.

Yonghoon listens to the faint roar of the swaying waves, closes his eyes when a sea breeze greets them. It’s skirting into something icy, brings the smell of salt and seaweed.

“I’m almost done with the song,” Giwook says, “I should be able to send you files by next week.”

“Huh,” Yonghoon hums, turns towards Giwook, “You’ll come again with Youngjo?”

Giwook laughs, “of course hyung will come, he wrote half of the song.”

Yonghoon stalls, but he knows Giwook has figured it out when the younger’s laugh starts again.

“He’s not bringing Sunny.”

He must make a face, because Giwook laughs just a little bit harder, playfully bumping his shoulders to his, “scaredy cat,” he giggles. Yonghoon doesn’t defend himself, smiles at the younger, it feels wide on his lips, he knows is the kind of smile someone may call dopey, but Yonghoon’s never been one to do things half heartedly.

“Who else is coming?” he asks, stopping when Giwook does, turning towards the direction where the wind rises, it hits cooly against his face, enough to send shivers down his skin.

“Harin-hyung,” Giwook supplies, easy, “and a friend who’s coming to live here for a bit. He said he hadn’t realized the days conflicted but he couldn’t leave the other alone. He was wondering if it was ok.”

Yonghoon doesn’t even think about it as he answers, “sure,” he listens to the moving waves, “it’s not like I can tell Harin what he can do.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, hyung,” Giwook says and Yonghoon hadn’t expected for the response to be so quick, so direct, “are you ok with someone new in the house?”

Yonghoon hums, not really interested in answering, mostly because he’s never really sure what his response should be.

The spray of the ocean is unforgiving, he flinches at the iciness of it, tilts his head as he smiles, unbothered.

“I can’t just live in my own little world, right?” His voice strains over the loudness of the sea, “there’s more to this than just you, me, music.”

Giwook snorts, “there’s nothing for you to catch,” he says, “nothing to fish for.”

Yonghoon pouts, laugh already trailing behind it as he hunches into himself, “say I’m the best Giwook-ah,” he complains, if he were anymore into theatrics he would have stomped his feet.

“Why?” Giwook replies, letting himself float away from his first question, into nothing but silliness, “you can just go online for that.”

And like always, Yonghoon laughs, loud and uncontrolled, finally loud enough to cover the ocean sounds.

They get a cup of coffee from one of the small stores by the boardwalk. It’s bitter and Yonghoon wrinkles his nose at it, knows he should have gotten a hot tea instead.

He sighs, under his breath, as Giwook browses in the snack aisle, crinkling sounds from the wrappers as Giwook grabs at them, holds them in his hands. Yonghoon waits patiently, for the next song to start on the radio, it’s something upbeat, so unlike him. He smiles, bops his head to the sound of it. 

“Hyung, let’s go,” Giwook bumps his shoulder against Yonghoon’s arm, “do you want anything?”

Yonghoon shakes his head, “It’s alright, Giwook-ah.”

He feels the shock of cold rain, icy, as it hits the back of his neck, trails between his skin and his clothing. He listens as the door shuts behind them. 

“We should get home quickly,” he turns to Giwook, “rain’s coming.”

It’s not long before the drops pick up speed, a steady fall, soaking Yonghoon’s hair, it makes his clothes heavy, holding on to his skin in, unsettling, uncomfortable.

He can feel Giwook’s hand in his again. He takes a second, he squeezes for a second, Giwook’s hand small, slim.

“Let’s go, hyung,” Giwook calls to him, drowning under the pour of rain, the loud sound of it crashing onto the concrete of the sidewalk.

He lets himself be pulled forward, legs automatic in their movement, he stumbles with Giwook’s force, smiles as he regains his footing, lets Giwook take over.

-

Giwook turns up the heat as soon as they get back home. Yonghoon wanders to the closet in the hallway, by the bathroom where he knows he keeps his extra towels and linens.

“Giwook-ah,” he calls as his hands close around the terry cloth, pulling it out carefully, draping his own over his shoulder, “get dry, you’ll catch a cold.”

There’s the sound of the clock ticking, then the faraway voices of the television Giwook has turned on.

“Can I use your shower?” Giwook calls as he walks towards Yonghoon, reaching for the towel in Yonghoon’s hand.

“I’m insulted you even have to ask,” Yonghoon turns to him, smiles, “your clothes are where they always are.”

Yonghoon changes his clothes when Giwook heads into the shower. He can hear the loud noises of the water running.

It’s late, and besides all the candy Giwook has bought for himself, they haven’t had anything close to food since the morning.

Yonghoon, never one to really cook, reaches for the cabinets, where he knows he has instant rice. 

He heats everything up in the microwave, along with some frozen meatballs he had bought from the market.

It doesn’t take much and by the time he’s pushing everything into plates Giwook turns off the shower.

Yonghoon is careful, walking slowly as he brings everything to the living room, where the sounds from the television are now the sounds of overly chirpy commercials.

He sits down, at his end of the table, pulling his plate of food closer to himself, chopsticks absentmindedly breaking up the hot rice.

“Oh,” Giwook says as he enters, “you got a new microwave?”

The sound of him dropping on the floor is muffled, the low scraping of the plate being pulled towards him, away from Yonghoon.

“No,” Yonghoon laughs, “Harin fixed it last time he was here.”

“Harin-hyung, what can’t he do,” Giwook humorously says.

-

He’s alone. 

The sounds of the waves are there, faraway, the crashing sound of them meeting the hard line of sand. The cries of the seagulls.

Through the opened windows he’s greeted with the brininess of the sea, carried by the ocean wind, the coolness of the water as winter begins to spread, fade in.

This is all he needs, he thinks, during several points of his day. A voice straining to convince itself more than a reassurance.

Alone, by the sea.

His fingers hover over the keys of his piano, he presses down, a long single note rings through the room, against the sound of the metronome in the room.

He has a song to write. Well, he has songs to write. 

His latest song has been doing well, charting as expected. He gets messages, texts, little video and audio recordings of the song playing in stores and restaurants from his friends.

Now he has an album to complete. 

Yonghoon hums to himself, lets go of the key, presses another. The melodies tend to come easier. Sounds, strings of notes that enter his mind and never leave him.

He plays some more, plays along to one of his old songs. His computer is opened to a blank document, ready for words.

“Ah,” he shakes his head, stops playing, “something a bit different.”

He’s not sure how long he sits there, listening to his hands repeat familiar combinations, struggles to change it into something new.

But sometime between his endless stretch of time, the doorbell rings and Yonghoon is quick to answer, walking quickly towards the front door.

He smells the familiar cologne as soon as he opens the door, the faint smell of something earthy. And then, faintly, the powdery smell of something flowery, delicate.

“Harinie,” Yonghoon says, opening the door wider, “you’re early.”

“It’s not a problem, is it?” Harin asks in place of his own greeting, “we took an earlier train.”

“We?” Yonghoon asks, more a confirmation.

“Hyungu,” Harin says, “I brought my friend Hyungu over,” he pauses, starts again, “he’s taking a break from competing. People always say laying by the sea is all you need, right?”

He laughs, it’s awkward and a bit uncomfortable, Yonghoon will have to ask the other about it when they are alone.

“It’s not a problem,” he answers, outstretches his hand, smiles, “I’m Jin Yonghoon. Nice to meet you, Hyungu-ssi.”

A hand holds on to his. It’s cold, dry. Yonghoon can feel the roughness of the skin, a life full of hard work.

“Kang Hyungu,” Harin introduces, Yonghoon turns towards his voice.

He remembers that summer, when Harin had asked him if he wanted to sit and watch his friend’s video.

He had listened carefully, a voice calling out _Kang Hyungu._

“Kendo,” Yonghoon says, smile now smaller, “I remember.”

“I bought food,” Harin changes the topic, the bags rustle as he says this and Yonghoon nods, finally lets them properly in.

“I’ll help.”

-

The sounds of the kitchen, the hiss of meat cooking on the skillet, the clacking sound of the knife to the cutting board. Yonghoon had been pushed into a kitchen stool, Harin’s hands gentle but firm.

“No offense, hyung,” Harin says, “but I trust Hyungu more than you in here.”

Yonghoon shrugs, doesn’t really have an argument to that.

“That’s fair, Harin-ah,” he says, leans forward, “after we are done, should we go into the studio?”

Harin makes a sound, “yes,” he tacks on, spoon scraping against one of Yonghoon’s skillets, “I can record the parts Giwook needs before he gets here, you know how he gets.”

“High-strung?” Yonghoon asks, tone light, “a perfectionist.”

“Everyone in this team is,” Harin laughs, “I guess that is why you’re so successful.”

Yonghoon feels his cheeks start to grow hot, withering in the attention he always asks for, but can’t really handle once he gets, “JYH would not be successful without any of you,” he says.

It’s earnest, sincere, misplaced in their friendly conversation.

He can feel Hyungu’s gaze on him, can feel him existing next to them.

“Hyungu thinks your music is good,” Harin adds, “we listened to it on our drive here from the train.”

“Thank you, Hyungu-ssi,” he’s quick to answer, too polite not to, “I hope you don’t get bored with how tedious song making is.”

Harin makes a snorting sound, reaches for something in the fridge as Yonghoon hears the door of it open and close, “Hyungu is the most patient person you’ll ever meet.”

-

They eat in mostly silence, Harin going over the messages and notes Giwook had sent him earlier.

“This kid never sleeps,” Harin says, stopping in his reading of Giwook’s frantic messages, “he sent all of these at 3 in the morning. Hyung, you are seriously not taking care of your baby.”

Yonghoon laughs, clears his throat, “ah you know Giwook doesn’t like it when I smother him.”

Harin taps his fingers along the marble counter of the kitchen island, “kids these days,” he says, teasing.

“If you’re done eating we can go into the studio,” Yonghoon urges, standing up from his seat, “I’ll put the dishes in the sink.”

There’s a second and then Harin speaks.

“Hyungu says he’ll wash the dishes,” he explains as he hands his bowl to Yonghoon, “as a thanks for letting him come along.”

“I couldn’t have him to chores as a guest,” Yonghoon shakes his head, but his protesting words get lodged in his throat when small hands reach for the dishes in his own, Harin’s voice already by the kitchen’s threshold.

“Hyungu insists,” he lets Yonghoon know, unhelpful.

Yonghoon hears the kitchen sink running, the clicking sounds of the dishes, before Harin’s large hands land on his shoulders, guide him to the studio.

“Is he -?” Yonghoon starts, as soon as the door closes behind them. 

_Like me._

Harin doesn’t answer right away, Yonghoon assumes he’s going around turning on the lights, all their needed equipment that has been left unplugged.

“It’s complicated,” Harin says, “kinda - I, I’m not sure if I should be the one letting you know.”

Yonghoon frowns, eyebrows crease into confusion.

“Does he, does he know about me?”

"That you’re a very important, best selling artist? Yes,” Harin jokes but Yonghoon feels the way his stomach knots, his fists squeezing tight into themselves.

“I told him,” Harin says, “so he’d know how to act.”

It brings relief to Yonghoon, stops worrying his lip with his teeth.

“You know, hyung,” Harin sighs, “it doesn’t have to mean anything...nowadays...people are a lot more accepting.”

Yonghoon feels those words almost as much as he hears them. His expression falters. He can’t bring himself to say it, holds the words inside of himself.

“You wouldn’t understand, Harin-ah,” he mumbles, finding his way to the couch, “it’s different, you know? Things are different.”

“Hyung,” Harin starts, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Yonghoon pats the place next to him, listens as Harin takes steps to him, the creak of the couch, “I know Harinie.”

His arms go around Harin, he shakes him a bit, playfully, “it’s hard sometimes to always be right about these kinds of things.”

“Hyung, do you want us to start?”

-

Harin is behind the recording booth, drums set up when Yonghoon hears the door open. It squeaks open, clicks closed.

Hyungu doesn’t say anything to him, but Yonghoon can hear his breathing, the sound of the floor pressing down as, Yonghoon assumes, Hyungu rocks back on forth on his feet.

“You can sit on one of the couches,” Yonghoon says, turns his face towards the other boy, “Harin just started.”

He doesn’t get an answer, Yonghoon doesn’t linger on it, turns to back to Harin in the recording booth.

They spend a good couple of hours recording. 

Yonghoon calls Giwook halfway through and he smiles, endeared as he makes comments, suggestions and requests as he and Harin record some instrumentals. 

Yonghoon holds on to his acoustic guitar as Giwook lists of things they still need to do.

“About that,” Harin starts, taking the phone from Yonghoon’s hand, “my friend, Hyungu?”

“The kendo guy?”

“Yeah, the kendo guy,” Harin chuckles, “he can play electric guitar, he feels a bit bad about just showing up.”

Yonghoon knows what Harin is saying is not just for Giwook, a roundabout way of asking Yonghoon too.

“He’s willing to play what you need.”

There’s the faraway sound from the phone, then Giwook’s small voice, “if Yonghoon hyung is ok with it, sure.”

It trails in a way that Yonghoon knows Giwook is inferring to Yonghoon’s need for the absolute best musically, _perfection_.

“Sure,” Yonghoon answers right away, can’t bring himself to put the other down, having just met him, “he can use one of my guitars.”

He’s not really sure what is happening. Harin sits next to him at the table, the door of the recording booth opens, Harin whispers to him, “he’s setting up now.”

They explain to Hyungu what they’re going for, what Giwook has envisioned for Yonghoon’s new album. 

Yonghoon listens as Hyungu starts playing, finds himself not surprised to hear how good Hyungu sounds. He trusts Harin, knows for all his teasing, Harin is just as nitpicky as he is.

They have Hyungu record more parts, Yonghoon can just see how pleased Giwook will be with them. 

-

It’s late by the time they finish and it’s after Yonghoon shows Harin and Hyungu their guest rooms that Yonghoon drifts to his front porch. Where he can smell the sea, feel the cool air. His teeth clatter together, the wintry temperature makes him curl a bit into himself. 

He’s broken away from his trance with the sound of the door opening, Harin’s scent bleeds into the saltiness of the air.

“It’s cold out here,” he says.

“And you just took a shower, go back inside, Harin-ah.”

“Hyungu and I’ll be out of here by tomorrow.”

Yonghoon shakes his head, “you know I don’t mind company,” he shivers, “where is Hyungu staying?”

“A hotel near the boardwalk.”

“He can stay here,” Yonghoon replies easily, no thinking, “it’s better than paying tourist rates.”

Harin laughs, low and quiet, “you’re really too nice, hyung.”

“Ask him for me,” Yonghoo presses on, “I’m not sure he’ll answer me.”

There’s a question there, it’s one that Harin catches.

“It was an accident,” he says, voice even lower, flickering whisper under the cold wind, “he...hasn’t recovered well from it.”

“An accident?” Yonghoon echoes, “during -”

“A fire,” Harin interrupts, “it was on the news...he was the only one who came out alive.”

Yonghoon vaguely remembers a story about a big fire, months ago. Thinks that’s where he really remembers the name _Kang Hyungu_.

“He can stay here,” Yonghoon repeats, wrinkles his nose when he smells the ash from Harin’s cigarette, “if he’s ok with staying.”

-

Giwook and Youngjo arrive early the next day, Yonghoon is half asleep, when he rolls out of bed, makes his way to the door.

“Hyung,” Youngjo says as soon as he enters, arms folding themselves over Yonghoon’s body, “you look cute with your hair like that.”

Yonghoon smiles, like an idiot whenever he knows he and Youngjo have started a new challenge.

“And you are handsome like always,” he says, goes limp as Youngjo holds him tighter as if to one up him.

“Anyway,” Giwook says loudly, “where’s Harin.”

“Sleeping,” Yonghoon answers, “but all his parts are done.”

“You need to record vocals today, right?” Youngjo asks as he lets him go, hand reaching to fix Yonghoon’s hair, “what we have so far, anyway?”

They forgo eating, really Yonghoon should be scolding them both but he senses the urgency, the restless energy from the younger that usually means there’s nothing that will take him away from what he’s planned to do.

He spends the morning recording and re-recording, listening to Youngjo and Giwook’s bickering, the scratching on paper from where he thinks Youngjo must be keeping his notes.

Yonghoon steps out of the recording one last time.

“Harin is here,” Giwook tells him, “and Hyungu-ssi.”

“You sounded great, like always, hyung,” Harin says, it’s less a compliment, more to let Yonghoon know he’s there.

“Thank you,” Yonghoon says anyway, “should we eat? Before you leave?”  
-

“The clouds are really heavy,” Harin says as they walk down the streets, towards the restaurant Giwook had wanted to order from, “it might rain.”

Yonghoon nods, “it rained last week,” he says, “nearly got sick.”

“He said yes, by the way,” Harin says, awkward, “I convinced him...but he said he’ll help with the chores in return. More focus on your music.”

Yonghoon stops walking, hand reaching for Harin’s arm, “he doesn’t have to do that.”

“I think he wants to.”

The restaurant is loud when they enter, Harin goes up to the checkout counter, reads out their order, Yonghoon’s card in his hand.

It smells like frying oil, salt, greasy chicken. His mouth waters, stomach turning, empty.

“Food’s ready,” Harin taps him on his shoulder, the sound of the plastic bags as Yonghoon’s nose picks up the smells from their order.

When they get home, Youngjo greets them, takes the bags Yonghoon had taken away from Harin. 

“Giwook set up plates,” he says, “in the kitchen.”

Yonghoon listens to the familiar conversations, between Giwook, Harin, and Youngjo. Loud giggles and laughter, light teasing, mock annoyance.

He joins in when appropriate, mostly when they all turn on Giwook and he can't let go of a chance to tease the youngest, hold him close and squeeze him.

And then Giwook and Youngjo leave, away to the big city, where their studios and homes lay. 

Yonghoon makes them promise to text him, call him, like he always does. And they humor him like they always do.

And then Harin eventually runs out of excuses to stay, he pulls Yonghoon out with him, whispers to him that Hyungu shouldn’t be a problem. 

And then it’s him and Hyungu and Yonghoon feels the same. Like he always does, in the quiet of his home, alone.

“You can sleep in the bigger guest room,” he says, to break the silence, “Harin took all his things, it should be empty.”

Hyungu doesn’t answer, but Yonghoon can still feel him, feel the stare, smell the flowery scent he had first recognized a couple of hours ago.

“Feel free to live here comfortably,” he tries again, “however long that may be.”

Again, he gets no answer. Yonghoon stalls, starts again.

“It’s late, he says, “I’ll go to sleep early for today.”

-

Days together don’t feel like it at all.

Yonghoon closes himself up in his studio, typing lyrics, trying to find inspiration in the ocean sounds, the smells as winter settles in and the air is always brisk, freezing.

His bare feet curl against the cold flooring, his body trying to keep warm with extra layers of clothes.

The only big difference is that Hyungu brings him food, Yonghoon stuck longer in the studio, as the door closes behind the other and all Yonghoon can smell is the food placed on the table behind him.

He never really is sure what he is eating until he tastes it, but he’s learn pretty quickly that Hyungu’s cooking is limited to a small number of dishes. 

They all taste decent, at least better than anything Yonghoon could ever even dream of making. So he eats it happily, places the dirty dishes in the sink, intent of washing them before going to sleep. But when he comes back, they’re always gone, Hyungu gotten to them first.

It’s even worse this way, Yonghoon thinks, being alone with someone else.

He starts to think about it, before his eyes close and he finally falls asleep. 

_How did Hyungu sound? Would he laugh like the rest of his friends? Loud and unapologetic._

It’s the loneliness, he knows. 

It twists his feelings into something wistful, something yearning.

Until Hyungu walks in to leave another plate full of food and Yonghoon finally turns towards him, lip worrying under his teeth.

“Eat with me,” he says, voice soft. Like Hyungu is a small animal and Yonghoon is afraid to approach, “just for today, if you want.”

The silence is agonizing. It’s a second, maybe even less.

But Hyungu’s lack of reply is louder than anything else, than the waves in the distance, the rustling sound of the wind.

The metronome ticks on without their conversation. 

Yonghoon feels the way his neck starts to warm up with rising heat, embarrassed, he lowers his eyes, even if it means nothing to him.

“Ok,” Hyungu says.

It’s a small sound, soft, edging into thin air. 

Fragile, unused.

Yonghoon takes it, holds on to it, tight as he smiles, stands up to walk towards the couches, the low coffee table.

“Ok?” he asks and he thinks Hyungu might have given him a nod, followed by a hasty _ok_.

He waits for Hyungu to return with his own food.

Feels like a parched man, dragging through the desert. Greedily surviving off one drop of water, under the unrelenting heat of the sun.

He waits, until he hears the door open again, the sound of the plate settling on the table.

The table moves with Hyungu’s movements, but Yonghoon doesn’t mind, scoots away to make room for his legs.

“Your food is really tasty,” he says, something he’s been wanting to tell the other for a couple of days, “usually I just eat whatever quick thing I have in the cupboard.”

He reaches for his chopsticks, picks up a piece of steamed vegetable.

“Thank you,” Hyungu says, again, low, shimmery, see through.

“No need to thank me,” Yonghoon shakes his head, chews thoughtfully before continuing, “I should be thanking you, for feeding me.”

He can hear Hyungu eating as well, the sound of his shaking knee hitting the underside of the table. 

“For letting me stay here,” Hyungu speaks again.

It’s short, but it’s more than Yonghoon really ever thought he would get. He feels the way the words stick to him, holding on to his thoughts, wonders why they feel heavier than they should be, from a voice that feels so paper thin.

“You’ve done enough around here,” Yonghoon rushes to explain, “don’t thank me so earnestly like that.”

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence, and then Hyungu leaves, taking the dirty plates away.

And Yonghoon is alone again.

-

Yonghoon wakes up without meaning to. He knows it’s not morning yet, can tell by the stillness in the air, the way the ocean stays calm.

He gets up from his bed either way, forgoes any socks or slippers as his feet touch the cold floor again.

When he opens the door he hears the television on in the living room. A home shopping program, selling nonstick pans.

“Hyungu-ssi?” he calls out, listens as the couch creaks, the way Hyungu’s clothes rub against the material of the cushions.

“What time is it?” he asks, can feel the way his eyes burn with no sleep, his body shivering, sleep warm, not yet adjusted to the cold.

“2:27 am,” Hyungu answers, and it still catches Yonghoon by surprise, to hear him answer, listen to his voice, so close to nothing.

“Why are you awake?” Yonghoon asks, he’s not really expecting any answers, just wants to fill the emptiness between them.

“Nightmares,” Hyungu’s voice is honest, unashamed, “woke up.”

Yonghoon doesn’t know how to answer that, not used to not being able to just show comfort and affection.

If it was Giwook he would hold him tight in his arms, soothe him until he slept. 

But he's not and Hyungu seems more and more like a figment of his imagination than something real, tangible. Like he'll be reaching for only air if he tried to touch the other.

He rounds the couch, lets himself fall, right next to Hyungu.

Their bodies meet in a fleeting collision of shoulders before Hyungu moves away.

“What kind of nightmares do you have?” he asks, finds himself interested, “I don’t have any of that…”

He waits, until he hears the television’s volume turned down.

“Fire,” Hyungu says, a hushed sound, a confession, “fire, screaming, my family.”

Yonghoon swallows nervously, blinks when he feels the sudden urge to cry, saddened.

He’s always been too soft, teased for it ruthlessly as a kid, teenager, now.

_Chicken hearted_ , his mother would say.

“Do you...do you only have nightmares?” he asks, nervous for some reason.

“Now, yeah,” Hyungu answers, is fast and rushed and it feels like Hyungu wishes he wasn’t having this conversation.

So Yonghoon drops it, nudges Hyungu’s shoulder, “turn it up a bit.”

Hyungu does and they listen to the pan’s features being listed.

“What color is it?” Yonghoon asks, heart stammering.

“Red, Yonghoon-ssi,” Hyungu says.

-

He’s playing his piano, imagining the notes in his mind when the door opens. Sometimes he forgets Hyungu is with him. 

The winter is stretching on, and between the days where he’s met with icy silence, and others where he finds himself wanting to be warm, wanting to be less lonely.

He feels the way the other sits next to him, on the bench. He’s stopped playing, bites the inside of his cheek when Hyungu presses on a single note. It’s louder than anything Hyungu has ever said to him.

“I really like your music,” Hyungu says once the note disappears between them, “I think you sound beautiful.”

If this were anyone else, Yonghoon would have basked in those words, preened and wrung out more praise.

But it feels clunky from Hyungu, it feels not entirely right, not entirely truthful.

He offers a wavering smile, a small movement away from the other.

“Thank you,” he says, too polite to not answer, “I really did get lucky with all the attention.”

He believes it wholeheartedly, no matter how much his friends like to tease him that he loves all the attention.

Everyday he feels less and less deserving of it. It’s a difficult thing to fight with, he keeps it to himself. 

“I listened to your songs on our way here,” Hyungu says, “and then again last night.”

He’s not sure where Hyungu is going with this so he stays silent.

“I think you worked hard for the attention.”

Yonghoon’s heart is skipping beats. It’s probably not healthy. He realizes this is the most he’s heard from the other, and although it’s still the flimsy sound of an underused voice, he takes it.

“Thank you,” he repeats.

Hyungu’s answer comes in form of another key being pressed down, then another.

“I used to play, before I did kendo,” Hyungu sounds distant, “I wonder if I still remember how.”

Yonghoon takes his hands away from the piano, turns, offers a grin, “like riding a bike, right?”  
-

It grows.

Steady like a stream, the amount of words Hyungu gives him, the times he spares for Yonghoon. Like he knows Yonghoon is a starving man and he’s being merciful.

And it’s not that he’s ever been one to be greedy.

But he finds himself thinking of questions to asks, conversations he wants to have with the other. It sprouts little tiny blossoms in his stomach, little ticklish feelings when he hears the slight gruffness of a morning conversation, the lilting rhythm of late night sleepy words.

The hot weight ripping through him when Hyungu whispers about his nightmares, as if afraid that saying them out loud will make them real again.

He feels the sadness of the words, but Yonghoon can’t really understand, grasp, at the feeling of truly being alone. Of seeing everything he has ever loved, everything he has ever known, burn right in front of him.

Hyungu’s retelling of his nightmares burn him, they scorch his heart, but he knows he’ll never have to heal like how Hyungu does.

-

Harin calls him one afternoon.

It’s a thinly veiled attempt at a check up and Yonghoon rolls his eyes as Harin stumbles over his words trying to get his sentences out.

“He’s still here,” he says, “he’s ok.”

He doesn’t want to tell Harin, that they manage to hold conversations for more than a second. That Hyungu is speaking to him.

But there’s something else he’s been wanting to know, too shy, too nervous to ask Hyungu himself.

“What does he look like?” he asks, voice quiet, afraid to be heard.

“Hyungu?” Harin asks, knows the answer but is startled by the question.

“Yeah,” Yonghoon nods, “how does Hyungu look like?”

“Thin,” Harin says, “dark hair, sharp nose.”

Yonghoon waits for more, doesn’t want to appear too desperate.

“ _Pretty_ ,” Harin settles on, “in a delicate way, a bit like you.”  
-

Yonghoon can’t begin to imagine how Hyungu looks. Even with Harin’s very brief description, it’s hard for him to place the other. 

He knows his voice is pretty, just how Harin said Hyungu was as well.

He knows that when they bump shoulders, Hyungu’s is always bony, sharp.

And when they’re sitting close by he can smell the beginnings of something flowery and light. Fluttering, bright, underneath the strong saltiness of the sea clinging to the air.

It’s causing something in him to shift, it’s familiar, something he’s felt before, a long time ago, before he was living by the ocean, a mysterious, famous, singer.

When he was younger, and he still thought the world wouldn’t care about him, about who he was. 

He falls in love easily, his heart breaks just as much. 

Harin says it explains why all his songs are so sad, why so many people relate.

But really he finds it hard to put into words.

Hyungu talks just as little as ever, but the words come easier between them, until Yonghoon expects their conversations more than he expects the silence.

They eat together in the kitchen.

When Yonghoon wakes up late at night, he joins Hyungu on the couch, listening to ads for ridiculously overpriced home appliances.

Listening to Hyungu talk about his nightmares.

Until one night it’s a dream and Hyungu talks about it like it pains him as much as the others.

“You were in it,” he says, “we were walking along the beach, the waves were freezing.”

“A dream with me in it?” Yonghoon parrots.

“And we were walking barefoot into the waves.”

“Let’s go now,” Yonghoon says, hurriedly, “no one is there, it’ll be just us.”

And that’s how he finds himself, leading Hyungu to the beach, until the reach sand and Yonghoon staggers across, shoes sinking into the sand, until they make it to the coast and Hyungu sighs.

“Let’s take off our shoes,” he says.

“We’ll get sick,” Yonghoon answers but he bends down anyway, reaching to undo his shoelaces.

He’s not sure what happens, exactly, except his heart stops on him, cold fingers pressing into his cheeks, guiding him down just a bit more, until his mouth touch lips. Another passing half beat, like ships brushing against each other, just barely missing each other at the sea.

“I had a dream with you,” Hyungu says when he pulls away, “we were at the beach and the waves were cold against our bare feet. You kissed me.”

Yonghoon’s hand reaches for Hyungu, but the other is too far away. He can feel him, close but not close enough.

There’s nothing between them, then the sound of Hyungu entering the waves, the crashing sound of water against the body.

Yonghoon stays still, afraid, until a freezing hand wraps itself around his wrist and drags him into the waves.

**Author's Note:**

> im not sure if i did this justice, tbh ;; but i wanted to try to make it less focused on their limitations and more on thoughts ;; i had a lot of ideas, so perhaps this might see a part two ;;
> 
> thank you so much to the admins who organized this, i really had fun writing for this fest!


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